Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.
Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it.
It were much better that a sentient being should never have existed, than that it should have existed only to endure unmitigated misery.
Death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon.
If God has spoken, why is the world not convinced.